A Meal Of Chaff
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Mr. F's aunt has good reasons for hating the man who broke Flora's heart.


A Meal Of Chaff

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Little Dorrit

Copyright: Charles Dickens' estate/BBC

When Flora Finching returned to the parlor, still flushed and breathless from the memory of Arthur's arm around her as they descended the staircase, she was met by the baleful, bloodshot glare of none other than her late husband's aunt. It made her flush again, this time with shame; sometimes it seemed as if the mad old woman could see everything, even the thoughts of those around her. It was really quite uncanny.

"Come on, auntie," she coaxed, forcing a smile. "You haven't half finished your toast!"

"Give 'im a meal of chaff, I say," said the old woman, still glowering towards the door. She picked up the crust of toast she had tried to make him eat and waved it in the air, as if ready to throw it at Arthur's head.

"Oh really, auntie," replied Flora, taking it away and putting it back on the plate. "I wish you wouldn't say such things about Arthur – Doyce-and-Clennam, I should say!"

"What'd he come 'ere for, anyway?" snapped the old woman.

Flora sighed. The question echoed that of her own heart too closely for comfort. Every time he came to the house, it always seemed to be in pursuit of some young woman or other – first Miss Dorrit, now Miss Wade and her dark companion – never to see _her_. She, who had once been his entire universe, was now politely tolerated as a means to an end. If he did not care for her, why must he keep returning to the house and remind her, by his presence, of those dear dead days gone by beyond recall? What _did_ he come here for?

"No doubt he's being chivalrous again," she decided out loud. "If you recall, auntie, he was so kind as to bring Miss Dorrit to my attention, and a dear good little seamstress she was too, before her good fortune – which, by the way, I believe was Arthur's doing as well. I shouldn't be surprised if this Miss Wade was another unfortunate woman benefiting from his kind assistance, don't you think? He's really very busy, is Arthur – Doyce-and-Clennam. Oh dear! The other sounds so natural. Really, extremely busy. Many demands on his time, what with the partnership and all of his good works. It's not to be wondered at if he has less time for his old friends than he did before – I have no reason to expect – that is – "

"If my Albert's widow ain't good enough for him," the old woman interrupted, nodding so fiercely her yellow bird's nest of a wig was knocked askew, "A meal of chaff is no more than he deserves!"

Flora's breath caught.

Sometimes she did that, the old lady. Sometimes the dank, cobwebbed attic of her demented mind was still lit up by the occasional beam of reason, and it never failed to bring tears to Flora's eyes. Someday, and sooner than she cared to admit, she would be old and frail as well. And when that day came, she prayed that she, too, would still be capable of loyalty to those who looked after her.

"Oh, auntie," she said, fumbling for a handkerchief. "You're very kind, but really – there's no need for you to dislike him on my account. He is not to blame, you see. It's only a game – only a foolish, delightful little game I choose to play. Wouldn't it be wonderful if it were real?"

Deliberately, playfully, she tossed her artificial curls and hitched her chair closer to her aunt-in-law's, giggling, as if they were both young girls about to share a secret.

"Now listen, auntie," she whispered, squeezing her fellow-conspirator's hand. "From now on, I shall be nineteen and you shall be thirty-eight, and we shall both be the prettiest, best-dressed, most admired ladies in London. Arthur Clennam shall be madly in love with me, and I with him, and we shall carry on a passionate, secret affair under Papa's very nose! And you won't tell him, will you? You'll keep my little secret, like the dear, sweet, understanding auntie you are?"

For the first time in many days, the old woman's hard, wrinkled features softened into a smile. She patted Flora's plump hand in return, then, to her surprise, leaned in to drop a quick, dry kiss on Flora's forehead.

"There's milestones on the Dover road," she said quietly. "Let us meet them if we can."

"Someday we will," Flora replied. "Someday. But not yet."


End file.
